Debt of the Sea

The sea had always been his companion. Not a friend, not an enemy — something more complex, a restless mirror of his own life. Every morning before dawn, Elias pushed his small boat from the shore, the wooden hull groaning like tired bones, and set out into the cold embrace of the waves.

He was an old man now. His beard, once black and thick, had thinned to grey wisps, salt-streaked like the tide-mark on the rocks. His hands, cracked and swollen from years of rope and saltwater, moved with the patience of one who had done this work long enough to know there was no rushing the sea.

The ocean gave, but it also took. He knew this better than most. Years ago, when the storms were crueler and his strength more youthful, he had lost his boy to the deep. A sudden squall, a boat overturned, and the water — dark, hungry, merciless — had swallowed his son whole. The villagers spoke of fate, of God’s will, but Elias knew the truth: the sea never forgets its debts. It takes what it wants, and it never gives it back.

Since then, every catch felt like penance. Every fish hauled over the side was a reminder that he lived while his son did not. He often found himself staring into the black water at night, listening to the slow thump of the tide against the harbour wall, wondering if his boy’s voice lingered somewhere beneath the waves. Sometimes, when the fog was heavy and the…